Right Place Right Time
by Cars1
Summary: It's winter in Eastern Ontario, Canada. Come with me as we meet one sexually frustrated Bella Swan and one Edward Cullen who just happens to be in the right place at the right time. One shot written for @mizzezpattinson 's birthday last year and the Hurricane Sandy relief effort.


Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.

A million thanks to my beta, the wonderful LatteCoug. Check out her amazing story Reluctant Hearts.

Heartfelt thanks to my pre-reader, amazing friend, and partner in crime, mizzezpattinson. Run to read her new story Starting Over.

Anyone who reads my stories knows that I don't normally do one-shots. So, this is not a typical story from me. This was written in support of the Hurricane Sandy relief effort. I do hope you enjoy. As always, let me know what you think.

It's winter in Eastern Ontario, Canada. Come with me as we meet one sexually frustrated Bella Swan and one Edward Cullen who just happens to be in the right place at the right time.

**Right Place. Right Time.**

_**Bella**_

I have this reoccurring fantasy and it goes something like this.

After a particularly intense and sexually charged workout involving me - clad in matching Lululemon workout gear that makes my ass look amazing, with my hair pulled back expertly into a perfect ponytail and glistening with a just a light sheen of sweat, my boobs looking stellar as they peek out from my perfectly fit tank top - and Emmett, my personal trainer, all buff and muscular and intense and... buff. He bends me over the workout bench and fucks me into a multiple orgasmic bliss while we watch our reflections in the mirrored room. There will be moaning that rivals any cheap porno involving James Deen, and it will last for a very, very, very long time.

In reality, I'm in an oversized t-shirt (not Lululemon) and frayed yoga pants which are three years old (which are Lululemon) and I'm blowing wayward strands of my hair from face as I try not to vomit all over him.

For clarification purposes, I am actually in good shape, and as Angela, my best friend often tells me, could wear the fuck out of the aforementioned fantasy tank top ensemble. I choose to wear cotton t-shirts as they are more comfortable, and I'm nothing if not practical and comfort seeking.

So, instead of the uncut version of my fantasy in which he takes me yet again in the shower, all tiled walls and slick streams of water cascading over our hard bodies as they mold together, I'm currently attempting to do sit-ups on the torture device that is the giant purple exercise ball.

There is virtually nothing that could get me from the comfort of my bed to the gym at five-thirty in the morning other than the knowledge that I will get to see the hotness that is my personal trainer. He's one of these guys that doesn't seem real; dimples, always laughing, muscles flexing in his black short sleeved t-shirt and Adidas pants, constantly hovering over me.

"Higher, Bells. You know you want to," he urges with a smirk.

Oh, fuck yes, I want to, and if I could just reach about four inches higher, I would cup what I am assuming is nine to ten inches of hard, throbbing cock.

Thanks to four days a week with _Mr. Just-Out-Of-My-Reach_, I may be in good shape, but I am extremely sexually frustrated. And I detest this fucking exercise ball sent straight from the depths of hell and whoever had the twisted, evil idea to invent it. How does one even come up with something as ridiculous as this? Bored one day of the typical bench or using the mat, you get a brainwave; "Oh, I know, this is just too easy, let's try to balance on this ball over here..." Asshole.

But I digress... back to Emmett, who is one of those people who has been blessed by the genetic Gods. Exactly the opposite of me. I can't walk past a window of pastries without feeling my jeans get a little tighter.

With my eyes focused on Em's abs, I find my inspiration and push through the sit-ups.

_Focus Bella... focus... a little lower...  
_  
"Feel like going harder?" he asks with a dimpled grin.

Not in the way you're thinking.

But instead of saying that, and because I am a coward of epic proportions, I simply nod and follow along behind him - after I fall unceremoniously onto the mat, of course - blatantly gawking at his ass, his broad shoulders, his biceps, anything really, I'm not picky at all. He leads me to the dreaded stair climber- yet another evil device that never should have been invented.

"Twenty minutes on here should do the trick," he announces, winking at me as he plays with the controls and I climb on... not onto him unfortunately.

Grumbling away under my breath in my constant state of frustration, I block out the world and get on with my twenty minutes of sheer hell.

An hour later, I'm bundled up under my winter coat, burrowing my face under the collar from the arctic wind as it whips my hair in front of my eyes so I can barely see where I'm going. I curse my lack of a proper snow brush as the third major snow storm of the winter descends upon the City of Kingston.

Tossing my bag into the trunk of my white, 1992 Mazda 323, I brush my arm across the windshield as I stand in ankle–deep, thick snow and try to clear off a spot big enough so I can see out of it.

Yes, I'm one of those people who other drivers bitch about. Can't she just scrape off her whole windshield? Blah-blah-blah.

Shivering and lamenting the fact that I live in Eastern Ontario, Canada, rather than on some tropical island where they don't have to deal with snow squalls and black ice, I climb into the driver's seat and shove my keys into the ignition, saying a silent prayer to the Mazda Gods. They have been good to me lately, starting in minus thirty degree weather, but I know my luck is going to run out soon.

My Dream Machine is ten years old and running on an alternator that my dad says should have been changed years ago. However, I have a choice, food and wine or an alternator? I don't think I need to explain my obvious choice and the reasoning behind it. Plus, I'm clinging to the belief that I will one day win the Lotto Max, and that I'll be the smiling, happy woman skipping down some cobblestone street in Venice without a care in world, spending all of my winnings and looking fabulous wearing a breezy, flowing skirt, and hopping onto a waiting orange Vespa with Emmett... or some reasonable facsimile thereof. But, until that happens, The Brothel is my bread and butter and wine as it were. Okay, so it's not an actual brothel- that's just the name I've given the _MegaMart_– the fabulous pharmacy where I work in which I am essentially a Viagra dealing supplier to the geriatric community.

It's rather disturbing that sixty year old retired men are getting more action than I am. It provides a constant stream of entertainment, if nothing else. It's also good experience as I finish up my pharmacy degree, plus, I get to wear a lab coat, which would be really cool except for the fact that it has shoulder pads that make me feel like I'm back in 1986. All I need is a scrunchy and leg warmers and I'm all set.

I manage to make it to the Brothel without incident, and park the Dream Machine in the employee section of the lot, which is seventeen kilometers away from the front of the store - at least it feels that way. I tuck my face back under the collar of my coat as the wind bites at my skin.

_Damn Canadian winter._

I whip open the door, stomping the snow off my shoes. Yes, I said shoes. In my whirlwind uber-early morning, I neglected to remember to put on boots- not the brightest move in the world, seeing the snow is coming down harder with each passing minute. I blame the rush out the door at an ungodly hour in the morning when it's still dark outside on Emmett and his tempting abs.

I'm happy to see Angela behind the counter, engaging in borderline inappropriate flirtatious banter with Eric, our new thirty-something pharmacist who just moved here from Calgary two months ago. There is a blatantly obvious attraction between the two of them, and I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I find them getting down and dirty in the supply room.

Hanging up my snow-covered coat in my locker in the employee break room, I slip on the eighties lab coat and shove my timecard into the clock. Hearing the resounding thud that signals the start of another day of insanity, I head behind the counter to get on with the business of dealing out Viagra.

Into hour seven of a twelve-hour shift, I'm proud of myself for not losing it on the string of geriatric Casanovas strolling in for their weekend supplies. Shuddering at the unwelcome visual that brings to mind, I start on restocking the liquid Advil, hauling a large box out from the stock room. With cold and flu season upon us, most of our cold medications are flying off the shelf like candy these days.

As predicted, this blizzard is brutal, having not let up all day, and along with that comes a series of scantily clad women who are dressed for a Vegas nightclub rather than a Canadian winter storm. They have cycled in to pick up condoms, and for some strange reason, copious amounts of make-up. You would think the apocalypse was coming and they would never get to a Revlon counter again.

I've never understood why people flock to buy supplies during a storm. It's not as if stores are never going to be open for business again, and who needs eight mega packs of paper towels and twelve cans of hairspray anyway? What in the world are they doing with them all during this storm? Maybe I don't want to know.

I plunk the box of Advil down in the aisle with a groan as my hair falls in front of my face. I'm completely exhausted, really needing to relax with my comfy fleece jammies, cozy socks, and some wine... yes, wine is required after the fucktastic day I've had dealing with full body shudder inducing clients.

Taking the exacto knife from the pocket of my lab coat, I bend over the box, and pull the knife across the tape, my hand faltering when a deep, sultry voice floats to me from behind.

"Is it too late to get a prescription filled?"

If he looks even half as good as he sounds, this day may just be saved. Brushing my hair behind my shoulder, I stand up from the box and adjust my shoulder pads.

_Please be hot...please be hot and not sixty-five with a fake Jersey Shore tan and gold chains around your neck._ I silently chant to myself as I turn in the direction of Mr. Sex Voice.

Scruff... It's the first thing I notice. Enticing two day old scruff, strategically placed along a strong jaw, that makes my mouth go dry. My gaze lingers on his perfect mouth for a moment too long before I scan up to amused green eyes, locked to mine.

Gripping the exacto knife a little bit harder, I grin at what looks to be unruly hair sticking out in multiple directions from a black beanie that's almost falling off his head. My eyes drift to the snow that's currently melting away on said beanie before sweeping down over his thick black winter jacket, faded, low hanging button-fly jeans, and snow covered boots.

_Holy fuck._ I take note of his not so subtle scan of my body, lifting a brow in an attempt to pretend that I'm annoyed that he is blatantly checking me out. At least I think he is. I'm used to getting leered at by creepy delivery guys, who for some unknown reason feel the need to show me the porn stash which they have saved on their phones. That is just plan creepy. This however, feels intensely erotic, and my face heats under his gaze.

"I think we can squeeze you in." Somehow, I manage to find my voice as I brush past him, trying to ignore the fact that he smells incredibly good and all man. Retracting the exacto knife and shoving it back into my lab jacket pocket, I move behind the counter, tripping over the damn Advil box in the process before leaning out under the drop off sign. _That's right, Bella. Lean on the counter so you don't fall down. _"This is where you drop off," I announce, sounding very official.

He smirks, strolling to the drop off area and leaning against the counter, his breath fanning my face as he inches closer. "We wouldn't want to drop off in the wrong place, would we…" His eyes drift to the nametag on my lab coat, and I make a mental note to thank Angela for insisting I fasten it just at the level of my breast. "…Bella," he practically whispers, pulling out a rather soggy prescription sheet from the pocket of his jacket and holding it out to me.

Gripping the end of the sheet, I meet resistance as I try to pull it from his hand, my eyes drifting back to lock to his.

"It's important," he says rather cryptically, tugging the paper back towards him.

"Every prescription is important here at the Broth—_MegaMart_," I correct myself, pulling the prescription from his hand as I lift a brow.

"Mmm…" His deep, hummed response only causes my face to heat further as I turn my attention to the lab computer, amazed that I can actually remember my password in this man's presence. I type it in quickly and with surprising authority, keeping my eyes on the screen and trying to ignore the fact that I can feel him staring at me.

I glance down at the damp prescription sheet, mortification sinking in quickly as I read the almost intelligible scrawl from the doctor.

_Viagra._

I am speechless, probably for the first time in my life. In what fucked up universe does a man like this need Viagra? I feel the colour drain from my face as I lift my eyes back to find his.

"Your name?" I manage to squeak out as he continues to lean against the counter, his eyes not moving from mine. "The doctor's handwriting is um… hard to read."

"Edward Cullen." His deep voice drifts to me as I type out the letters on the keyboard. Surely I would remember this fine specimen of a man if he had been in here before. He must be just visiting… maybe his Grandfather for the holidays. Yes, in my scenario, he is the dutiful and caring grandson who has travelled through the storm of the year to visit his ailing Grandfather and pick up his Viagra prescription… _Fuck._

"You're not in my system," I announce when the computer notifies me that his name is not found.

"Not yet," he replies, cocking his head with a smirk.

Two words and I'm done. His voice alone has managed to make me squirm. Clearing my throat, I glance back at the screen. _This is simple, Bella. You've done this a thousand times, simply get the gorgeous man's information, and fill in the blanks._

"Is my brother in your system?" he asks casually.

My eyes dart back to his. "Excuse me?"

"My brother. It's his prescription," he clarifies.

"Thank fuck," I murmur under my breath.

"What was that?" he asks, sliding his hand up to slip his beanie off. I wet my bottom lip as my gaze drifts to his unruly hair, all crazed and damp and glistening with the remnants of snow. He just about induces a heart attack when he runs his long fingers through it. Momentarily, I consider running to the back to hunt down the Nitro spray as my mind lands firmly in the gutter.

"N… Nothing…" I stammer, waving the prescription in the air in the hopes of distracting him."Just ignore me. It's been a very long day."

"It's impossible to ignore you, Bella."

I blink. "Impossible?"

"Mmm… Well, you are standing right there," he says with a grin.

Right. Of course. Why would he be attracted to me? In what scenario is a man like this – a hot as the flames of hell, non-Viagra using man like this- attracted to the shoulder-padded, exhausted, having a bad hair day me?

"Right. Well, let's hope your brother's condition, doesn't run in the family," I fire back at him, in my typical snarky way. The words escape before I can even think to stop them, and my hand flies to cover my mouth.

His eyes widen, and then, he bursts out laughing; a full bodied, head thrown back, deep laugh, causing me to laugh right along with him.

"I didn't mean that," I say through my own giggles.

"Yes you did, and don't worry," he says, grinning as he leans back toward me. "He's my adopted brother." I take an audible breath in at his words. "Emphasis on the _adopted_."

Swallowing, my laughter fades away quickly and I simply nod, turning back to the computer screen. "And his name?"

"Emmett."

My fingers still over the keyboard I glance back to him. I'm on candid camera. I must be. I mean, come on. How many Emmett's are there in Kingston, Ontario? Seriously? _ My nine to ten inch throbbing fantasy cock needs Viagra?_

"This is a joke, right?"

He furrows his brow, looking confused. "I wish I could tell you that it was. He um… was injured in a car accident, and –"

I hold my palm up to him. "Stop right there. I'm pretty sure this conversation has already gone way over the line of appropriate pharmacy tech-customer interaction." That, and my uber-fantasy of Emmett and his perfect cock is now ruined for all time. Perhaps I can replace that fantasy with a brother from another mother… Hmm…

"But why would you think it's a joke?" he presses.

"Let's just say I know Emmett and leave it at that, shall we?" I click the mouse to bring up the new customer entry screen, praying that he'll drop it.

"You know him? Like, _know him-know him_?" he asks warily.

"No! Not that way. Jeez! Do I look like someone who would know him-know him?" I hiss, leveling him the fiercest bitch-Bella stare I can, which let's face it, is not that scary at all.

His eyes rake down my lab coat. "Well, actually, yes."

I'm not sure if I should be offended or turned on. Maybe offended _and _turned on, followed by angry sex with one extremely hot Edward Cullen where he pushes me up against the condom display, our bodies writhing together as boxes upon boxes of condoms rain down upon us.

"Bella?" Edward's amused voice breaks that mini fantasy and I give my head a much needed shake, trying to focus back on the prescription.

Somehow, we make it through adding Emmett to the system, exchanging sexually charged banter the entire time.

"Has he ever had this prescription before?" I ask in my well practiced professional pharmacy technician voice.

"Mhmm. Several times. Repeatedly," he responds with a hint of amusement. Oh, and don't forget that smirk of his designed to drive me and every other woman in the general vicinity insane.

"So, I don't need to go over the um… precautions then." I lift a brow. Yeah, he may have mastered the smirk, but no one does the pissed off eyebrow like I do.

"Oh, I think I'd like to hear them, _Bella._" I bite the inside of the my mouth as my panties get wetter. His heated stare and head cock is a pretty damn lethal combination, I'm discovering.

_Cheeky bastard._

"Well, for starters, _Edward, _if he has an erection that lasts for more than four hours—"

"He's a lucky fucker?" he interrupts.

"Depends on how you look at it."

"And how would you look at it?"

"Lucky fucker."

"Mmm…Thought so," he murmurs as his eyes lock to mine.

"Well, if he's had this before, I don't really need to go through everything. I'll just um… get it ready." I slide one of the handheld buzzers to him, and he furrows his brow. "This will buzz when it's ready."

"You're going to buzz me?" he asks boldly. "I'll be waiting." Why does that sound so fucking hot?

"Oh, that's where you pick up," I state, leaning out beside him and pointing to the end of the counter.

"Hmm… Is that right?" he asks, glancing down to the cash register. "And do you get lots of people…picking up as it were?"

I bite back a laugh at his not so subtle innuendo. "Several. Every. Single. Day." I lean just a little bit further over the counter, dangerously close to him. "_Edward,_" I whisper, turning on my heel and marching back behind the partition. Two can play this game, sir.

Actually, I have no idea about game or if I even have it, but I do know that Emmett's Viagra prescription has made my day a whole lot more interesting.

Fifteen minutes later, after I've used my 007 stealthy spy techniques to try to keep an eye on Edward while he wanders the aisles in the pharmacy, Eric has filled the prescription and left it in the bin with the rest of the waiting refills below the cash register.

I'm actually proud of myself. Edward only caught me staring at him twice, and each time that little smirk of his resulted in an immediate hardening of my nipples. I activate the buzzer, scanning the crowded the aisles.

I find him quickly - let's face it, he's hard to miss - standing by the _Durex _display, with a box of what looks like Pleasuremax in his hand, turning his head quickly in my direction and grinning back at me as he raises the buzzer and strides to the counter to wait in line. There's a visual I'll have in my head for a while.

In typical fashion, as we're closing in an hour, and the apocalyptic storm of the century is apparently upon us, everyone and their dog has decided this is the time to refill or drop off their prescriptions.

We are slammed with waiting customers, and I'm wishing that Angela was still here to help ring people through. I'm busy with explaining Mr. Molina's arthritis medication when Eric appears beside me.

"There's a line at the drop off counter, B. Why don't you go handle that and I'll man the register here for a bit until we catch up." He picks now of all times to be helpful.

"But—" I start to protest, looking up to find Edward in the line, his eyes on me as he turns the _Durex _box over in his hand. I glance over at the queue of irritated customers at the drop off area, sighing in defeat. "Okay." Giving Edward a shrug, I trudge over to the drop off to start to deal with the last minute rush.

I am soon immersed in conversations you never want to have with perfect strangers about everything from herpes to strep to, yes, even more erections. By the time I glance back to the counter, Edward is gone.

Oh well, I can chalk it up to an interesting shift if nothing less. With the last of customers gone happily with their weekend supplies, finally we get to go home. As Eric locks the doors, the storm has picked up again. Gusts are blowing the snow sideways as I try to shield my face from the biting wind and make my way… in my shoes… the seventeen kilometers to my car.

With the exception of the howling wind, it's eerily quiet and the parking lot is completely empty save for Eric's Ford F-150, which he's currently speeding away in like a bat out of hell, and my Dream Machine, which of course has sat in the path of snow drifts that are now blocking my ability to open the door.

Eric gives me a wave from behind the wheel of his truck as I step into a drift up to my knees. Cursing under my breath as I feel my socks get soaked, I haul my door open enough so I can squeeze in.

I drop my bags and purse to the passenger seat beside me, shoving the keys into the ignition and giving the silent prayer to the Mazda Gods as I look out to the blanket of white snow that covers the windshield. Unfortunately, the Gods seem to be busy elsewhere.

_Click-click-click._

Deep breaths, Bella. Just try again.

_Click-click-click._

I furrow my brow, turning the key.

_Click-click-click._

Over and over and over.

Resting my forehead against my hands on the steering wheel, I curse the Dream Machine. Why did it have to quit on me now? _Why?_ When I want nothing more than to go home and indulge in a new version of my fantasy? An Edward version that I am thinking will be much better than my Emmett version which is now ruined for life.

Shaking my head, I peer out of the passenger side window, watching as the wind blows the snow to white out conditions.

And now, I have a choice. Stay in the Dream Machine and freeze, or take the hike to the nearest bus stop. I shudder at the thought of public transportation in a storm like this. I may be waiting hours. I could always walk home- that would probably take just as long in this fucking weather.

Pulling my phone from the black hole that is my purse, I scowl when I see that yet again, the battery is dead. They can put a man on the moon, but can't make an iPhone battery last more than eight hours. Perhaps if they spent less time trying to find new ways to drive us all crazy with auto correct and more time on the battery life, this kind of shit wouldn't happen.

At least I have junk food. Tossing the phone back into my purse, I reach across to pull out a bag of _Old Dutch_ dill pickle chips, opening it and shoving a few into my mouth while I try and figure out the best course of action. I can burn off the "empty calories" as Emmett calls them tomorrow. Or even better, I can shiver them away in this minus fucking twenty-five degree weather.

I crunch harder on the chips, shuddering slightly as the windows begin to fog and my body temperature starts to drop. In the distance, at the other end of the parking lot, I can see the familiar hazy blue flashing light of a snow plow as it pushes the deep snow into a large pile.

I watch the fuzzy blue light through the passenger window for a long time. It's mesmerizing in a way. Eventually, I contemplate getting out of the car and waving it down, but before I can, the plow turns in the direction of the passenger side of the Dream Machine, sending snow flying out of the way in its wake.

Momentary panic sets in, and I wonder if maybe in the white out, the driver doesn't see the car. I mean, I can barely see anything at all. I lay on the horn as the blinding headlights approach, and the plow finally pulls to an abrupt stop a distance away from the passenger side of my car.

Through the blowing snow, I see the driver's side door open and a tall figure, all bundled up in dark colours, strides purposefully through the snow to the car. Every single bad late night horror movie I've ever seen flashes before my eyes. I'm going to die. He's some lunatic serial killer who is going to chase me through the snow drifts, and they'll find my body in a dumpster behind the _MegaMart._

But, instead of smashing the window in with his hand and trying to reach in to grab me, he brushes the snow from it and knocks softly on the glass, lowering down to peer in.

I take a sharp breath in as my heart hammers and I stare back through the frosted windows into the concerned eyes of Edward Cullen.

I hear him try the door a few times, and then his muffled voice floats to me. "Unlock the door, Bella!"

I fumble with the chips with my partially frozen hands, spilling them all over me in the process as I unlock it. He yanks on the handle, opening the door against the snow drift, leaning over the bags on the passenger seat.

I can feel the tension rolling off him as he narrows his eyes at me. "You always sit in parking lots during fucking storms and wait to get run over?" he barks at me. I can see his breath in the air, his black beanie covered with the snow just from the short walk he took to the car.

"It won't start," I fire back at him. He's pissed at me? What the fuck? I'm not the one who almost ran him down. If anyone should be pissed off here, it's me.

"I gathered that. I almost didn't see you." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Do you have any idea how fucking close that was?"

"I'm sorry. I was just… the car won't start and my stupid phone is dead and-"

"And you wanted to have a party in here?" he interrupts my panicked rambling, pulling off his gloves and plucking a chip from the arm of my coat, popping it into his mouth. "Dill pickle?" I nod at him. "My favourite. You know, if you wanted to have a party, you could have just called." The corners of his mouth turn up as he levels me a smirk.

"Yeah? Well, I don't have your number." _Give it to me. Please?_

"Mmm… We'll have to change that," he mutters, his anger morphing into something much more dangerous and seductive. "Get out of the car."

My mouth goes dry at his words. "Excuse me?"

He lifts a brow. "Get. Out. Of. The. Car." I narrow my eyes at him. "I'll take you home," he adds more gently.

I peer around him to the hulking beast of a plow that is currently being battered with snow. "You drive that?"

"No. I just hijacked it." I roll my eyes at him. "Yes, I drive it. It's not as luxurious as…Oh, I don't know, say a Mazda 323, but it's the best thing to be in during a storm like this."

"Are you sure? I mean I don't want to get you into trouble or anything." I choose now to be concerned about city protocol.

"Helping damsels in distress is what we snow plow drivers do. Instead of a knight in shining armor, think of me as your knight in a beat up snow plow."

I giggle at him, shaking my head as he starts to gather up the bags on the passenger side. I pull the keys from the ignition with my cold fingers, and push the door open against the snow drift, stepping out and brushing off the wayward chips from my jacket.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" he asks over the roar of the wind as I jump about a foot, seeing him standing beside me.

"What are you talking about? And don't sneak up on me like that!" I hit him in the shoulder as the snow swirls around us.

He chuckles, pointing with the bags and my purse that he's now holding to the ground. "On your feet. Where are your winter boots?"

I look down into the snow drift at my wet Nikes. "I forgot them."

"You forgot them? Jesus Christ," he mutters, sounding exasperated.

"Hey! I was out the door at O-dark-hundred this morning. You're lucky that I'm dressed at all."

"Mmm…" he hums, leaning around me to shut the door on the Dream Machine. "That, I would like to see."

Holding my bags in one hand, he reaches down with his other, grabbing mine and tugging me through the deep snow. "Come on before you freeze to death!" he shouts as snow whips against him.

His hand tightens around mine, and I feel strangely comforted as we wade through the snow back to the passenger side of the plow. He hauls open the door and tosses my bags to the back.

"Up you go!" he shouts as I pick my snow-soaked foot out of the drift and onto the step bar, feeling his hand curl around my hip as he boosts me up into the seat. I smile down at him as the warmth of the interior of the plow engulfs me – or that could have been his strong hand - watching as he moves around to the driver's side, and climbs in.

I try to take in my surroundings, but it's all a blur of dials and switches. Plus, I'm distracted by the soothing sounds of Otis Redding as he croons away about sitting in the morning sun.

"See how close I was?" Edward motions to the windshield and my mouth drops open as I peer to the ground below. The blade of the plow is a lot closer to my Dream Machine than I thought.

He turns to me, his green eyes blazing as he slips the plow into reverse. "I'm glad I stopped in time. I want you around for a lot longer, Bella."

I don't have a come back to that, so I simply nod, watching him in fascination as he maneuvers the plow expertly away from my car and out of the parking lot.

I watch his jaw tighten in concentration as we move down the snow covered streets and I start to thaw out.

"Edward?" I ask over Otis' voice, leaning my head back against the seat.

"Mmm…" He glances over at me with a grin.

"Thank you."

His grin widens as he adjusts the speed of the windshield wipers. "Just doing my job, Bella."

"I'm sure that driving home stranded women who don't know enough to look after their cars isn't in the job description of a snow plow driver."

"Hey! That's snow plow _knight_ to you," he teases.

"Mmm…" I close my eyes. "My knight."

_**One Shot End Notes:**_

Many thanks for reading.

Let me know your thoughts.

Twitter: CarLemon


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